


Stars of the Morning Sky

by faerierequiem



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:26:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9331448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerierequiem/pseuds/faerierequiem
Summary: Achilles has gotten the chance to start over, but even after moving to Athens and enrolling in a new school, nothing seems like it'll change. Until he meets Patroclus and a relationship is sparked in which each boy's painful past is able to come to light and the two boys are able to forge a future for each other that neither thought was possible.





	

**Author's Note:**

> To specify on the additional tags: While a rape scene will not occur in this fic, one of the characters is a victim, so it will be a prominent part of their story and past events will be recounted. If this is a sensitive topic that effects you, please do what's best for you.

Achilles has traced the path to the school from the apartment countless times during the past month. Mostly because he could tell that his mother had wanted him to go outside more and because he hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else to go, but there’d also been a part of him that had wanted himself to get used to the sight of the school he would likely have to attend for the next three years. It has helped a little, but now he realizes that the exterior of the school is not the only problem he should’ve been fixated on. The interior is proving to be much more complicated.

He knows he’s not doing a good job of concealing his frustration, because when other people catch sight of him, their expressions dampen or they make sure to distance themselves as he passes or both, but Achilles doesn’t care. Looking friendly is the least of his concerns. Hasn’t been for a while.

After a while, the halls clear as classes start and it only adds to Achilles’ aggravation that he’s going to be late. He grits his teeth as he turns into the same hall he’s already passed through five times, except that there is a guy who wasn’t there the previous times. His back is turned to Achilles as he pins a poster to the bulletin board that is located where the hall diverges to the right. Letting out an agitated sigh, Achilles quickens his steps and tries not to sound too desperate when he calls out, “Hey! Can you help me with something?”

At the sound of his voice, the guy drops one of his pins, but instead of kneeling down to pick it up, he turns around to look at Achilles and he’s got a gentle half-smile on his face that makes Achilles stop in his steps.

The guy says something, but Achilles is too busy taking in the sight of his smile to catch his words. There’s a part of him that’s thinking, _They were right. They were right_ , but when he looks down at the guy’s olive-toned forearms that’s revealed by his rolled-up sleeves, Achilles also wonders, _Why not sooner? Why now?_

“Are you alright?”

The words snap Achilles out of his stupor.

The guy’s smile has turned slightly confused.

With a biting horror, Achilles realizes that he’s forgotten what he was going to ask. He scrambles to remember his question. How could he have forgotten? He’s been frustrated about it for the past ten minutes. He struggles to fill up the silence as he tries to remember. “I wanted to ask something. I have a question about…”

At a lost, Achilles tightens his hands into fists, crumpling up the paper in his hands in the process, and realizes his answer. Trying not to look embarrassed, he smooths out the paper and walks closer to the guy, so that he can get a good look at his schedule. He points at it. “I’m having trouble finding this room.”

The guy is a few inches taller than him, so when he looks at the schedule, he has to bend his head down a little bit. Despite himself, Achilles is all too aware of their close proximity and all too aware of how _clean_ this guy smells. It’s not quite a flowery scent, but it’s soft and sweet, not too overbearing, but still there. Achilles guesses that it’s his cologne or shampoo and risks a glance at the guy’s dark hair, quickly averting his eyes when the guy looks over at him.

“That’s a typo on the schedule,” he tells Achilles. “That’s the room number for an office.”

Of course it is. Achilles holds back the urge to roll his eyes, punch a wall, go back home and stuff his face into a pillow. He should’ve known that something would be out to screw with him. “Do you know what's the room number that I should be looking for instead?”

“Considering that your class is choir, I assume that it’s that classroom.” The guy points behind him and Achilles turns to see a classroom just to his left. It’s the class Achilles realizes made him do a double-take the past few times he passed through the hall. The class room number is one digit off from the one on his schedule and if he’d been smarter, he would’ve gone in there sooner to ask and find out that it was the correct classroom.

But a big part of Achilles is happy that things worked out this way. Even though the guy has stepped away, the faint sweetness of his shampoo or cologne lingers in the air and even though Achilles feels like a kid for doing so, he inhales the scent. He wants to remember it, this small, good part of his day.

Achilles opens his mouth to thank the guy or ask his name, but before he can, a voice is calling out, “Max! Mrs. Laskaris wants to talk to you!”

Achilles spots a girl at the end of the hallway, poking her head out from one of the other classrooms, and turns to the guy, who’s picking up the pin he dropped earlier. “Max? Is that your name?”

The guy stands up and pins the last corner of the poster up on the bulletin board. “It’s short for Maximos,” he says.

“Oh…” Achilles pauses. Maximos probably doesn’t even care and Achilles is not sure they’ll even meet again, but he continues to introduce himself anyways. “My name is Achilles.”

“Achilles?” Something in Maximos’ expression stirs. For the first time, he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to Achilles out of politeness, but because of something else. Achilles isn’t sure what, but the way he’s being looked at makes him feel as if the deepest parts of him are being pulled to the surface. It makes him want to run away and hide.

“…Patroclus.”

The name startles Achilles with its unexpectedness. “What?”

“My name is Patroclus.”

That’s all it takes for Achilles to feel small. He’s gotten remarks about his name, but that was before, and even then, no one ever took this route. He hates himself for being so sensitive, but even though Maximos smells nice and has a nice smile and nice forearms and nice hair, maybe people are going to be the same no matter where he goes. Achilles swallows back disappointment.

“Max!” The girl is calling him again.

Achilles doesn’t know what to think.

Maximos—or Patroclus, whatever his name really is—gives her a nod. The girl retreats back into the classroom and Patroclus/Maximos gazes back at Achilles. The smile on his face is kind, but maybe that kindness is more dangerous than anything else. “Maximos is actually…” He pauses for a quick second, as if he’s thinking, and Achilles feels the urge to let out an unamused laugh. If this guy is going to lie, he should know what he’s going to say beforehand.

“Maximos is my nickname of sorts,” Patroclus/Maximos finally says. “My real name is actually Patroclus.”

“Patroclus,” Achilles repeats. He doesn’t even try to keep the dull disbelief out of his voice. It’s a good thing he’s finding out that Patroclus/Maximos is not-so-great early on rather than later.

Patroclus/Maximos nods. “You can call me that if you want. Or you can stick with Maximos or Max—whichever you prefer.” His grin widens. It looks so sincere that rather than getting more defensive like he should be, Achilles lets his guard down a bit.

“I think I’ll go with Patroclus,” he says.

A corner of Patroclus’ smile quirks up even more. “This is my first time meeting someone named Achilles.”

Achilles is about to say that this is his first time meeting someone named Patroclus, but the girl is back and shouting out, “Come on, Max! Do I have to bribe you over here? You’re not going to want to miss what she has to tell you!”

“Well, it looks like I have to go,” Patroclus says. He looks almost apologetic for a quick second, but then he’s all smiles again. “Let me walk you to class.”

Achilles finds himself grinning, and a mix of conflicting emotions fill him: surprise that he’s smiling, shyness, disbelief at the presence of that shyness, giddiness, displeased with himself for being giddy, but—above all—he feels okay. He even feels like making a joke of his own, but instead he quietly follows after Patroclus. It takes only five steps to reach the door and he wishes it were fifty, and then wishes that he didn’t wish that.

Patroclus turns to face him. “It was nice meeting you, Achilles.”

“Yeah, you too,” Achilles says, and then quickly adds, “Patroclus.”

Patroclus smiles and gives Achilles a wave. “See you tomorrow.”

It’s not a question. Achilles keeps his smile from widening. He watches Patroclus walk away, but snaps out of it a second later and turns away to face the door. He doesn’t want to be caught staring and since he’s already late for class, he doesn’t have the time to stare, but even knowing that, it takes Achilles a while before he turns the doorknob and steps into the classroom.

He is greeted by the sound of a piano playing and people singing. In the far-left corner, a man sits at a piano, playing out corresponding notes to the ones the group around the piano are singing. Others sit in rows of chairs, silent or whispering amongst themselves. When Achilles enters, most of them look over at him and just like that, Achilles’ guard goes up again and whatever traces of the smile he has left on his face disappears.

There are plenty of empty chairs for him to choose from to sit in, but Achilles continues to stand up, leaning a little against the wall as he waits for the piano playing and the singing to finish. When it does, the man at the piano is already talking before Achilles has a chance to say a word. He waits for the man to finish assigning soprano and alto parts to the girls. When that is over, before Achilles can even open his mouth to speak, the man is looking up at him.

“Are you here to sing?” he asks.

Achilles nods.

The man gestures him over to the piano.

As he crosses the room to stand by the piano, Achilles tries to ignore the way the whole room’s attention is on him.

The man has focused his attention on the music sheets in front of them and is rearranging their order. “Is there a reason why you’re late?”

“There was a typo on my schedule.”

“That isn’t a proper excuse for being ten minutes late,” the man says. “You could’ve asked for help and that time would’ve been cut down to only two minutes. Maybe even less.”

Achilles doesn’t like the man’s tone, but he’s right, so instead of arguing what is likely to be a futile fight, he clenches his jaw and nods.

The man sets his hands down on the piano keys and plays out a scale. “I hope you don’t mind singing by yourself. I’ve already gotten all the other lads sorted out, so unless another one is also late because of a schedule typo, you’re on your own.”

Achilles knows his answer is not being asked for, but he says it anyways in a dry tone. “I don’t mind.” He corrects his posture, straightening his back and planting his feet firmly on the ground. He’s going to sing his best, show what this no-nonsense choir teacher will be missing if he truly gets on his bad side and Achilles decides to leave.

“I don’t want to waste too much time,” the man says, “but a quick warm-up should be enough—”

“I don’t need it,” Achilles cuts in.

The man raises an eyebrow up at him. If he sees the challenge in Achilles’ eyes, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Don’t be ridiculous. The human voice is an instrument, and just like an instrument needs to warm up, so do the vocal chords in order to perform its function properly.”

With that, he plays out a warm-up. It’s one that Achilles recognizes his mother does with her students, so he easily catches on and sings. The warm-up stops shortly afterwards and the man plays out some scales. “The next part is simple. I will play the starting note of a scale and you will sing the melodic intervals…”

Achilles tunes him out. He already knows what to do, but—and as much as he wants to—he also knows it’s not a good idea to interrupt the teacher and tell him to cut to the chase.

When the man is done explaining, he presses one of the keys. It’s slightly low for Achilles. He’s never been much of a bass, but he still manages to reach the note without too much effort and sing the notes he’s supposed to.

Gradually, the piano makes its way up the scale and Achilles doesn’t hold anything back. He may not be singing anything impressive, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t have these simple notes sounding like the best thing any of these people have ever heard. He keeps his vocal chords relaxed, uses the techniques his mother taught him, and is supported by more than a decade of experience as he sings out the notes in the clearest, most golden way possible.

The piano stops out of nowhere, cutting him off mid-note.

It surprises him, but Achilles lets his voice fade naturally before saying, “I can go higher than that.”

“I don’t need you to.” The man makes a dismissive gesture. “Go sit with the tenors.”

Achilles frowns, but he doesn’t want to be standing up here anymore than he can help it. The class is mostly composed of girls, so that easily cancels out where not to sit, but even then, Achilles is not sure which group of boys to sit with. It’s not helping that there are about twenty pairs of eyes aimed up at him. Finally, a guy holds up a hand to signal to him where the tenors are.

Achilles makes his way over and sits in an empty chair towards the side, which also happens to be by the guy who held up his hand.

The guy introduces himself, but Achilles forgets his name a second afterwards. He’s not in choir to make friends, but this guy seems to think that since he helped him over that it means they are, because he’s chatting away like they’ve known each other for years.

Achilles doesn’t pay much attention, but the guy somehow manages to carry on the conversation by himself. When Mr. Awful gets up from the piano and begins to discuss his plans for the class, Achilles is actually relieved to hear the man talk. He leans back in his chair. It’s only the first class and already he wants the day to be over. Achilles does not take that as a good sign.

 

* * *

 

The following of Achilles’ classes pass by uneventfully. Achilles is more than grateful for that, but the uneventfulness is ruined by the fact that his last class of the day is gym, which is the class where the athletes are going to be athletes and Achilles does not want to be around any of that. Yet the hours tick by and gym continues to hang over him like a curse.

He used to love gym class, used to love the sweating and strength that the physical activities required, used to love how he could boil his existence down to the breaths he breathed as his body went through motions that came as naturally to him as the breathing, but all of that has been ruined—by athletes no less. Achilles hates that even here, faceless and nameless, they can still manage to destroy his mood.

When the time comes for him to find where the gymnasium is, Achilles almost considers walking out the doors and ending his day early, but he knows that that’ll be just avoiding the unavoidable. He’s got to be stronger than that. He can’t let the thought of some stupid athletes stop him. He’s made it this far. Only one more class to go and it’ll all be over and done with. It’s more spite than optimism that he’s feeling, but Achilles latches on to it and moves through the crowded hallways towards the gymnasium.

He doesn’t quite make it into the gymnasium. A sign has been put up on one of the gymnasium doors that addresses his class. For a moment, a flare of hope fills Achilles, but then he reads the sign. Instead of announcing a canceled class, the sign says that class is going to take place outside on the field and for students to wear a uniform from the basket, which is located right below the sign.

Achilles stares at it in disappointment.

A couple of boys are already rummaging through the basket. Achilles waits for them to finish picking out their uniforms, but only gets more irritated by their annoying chatter as they stretch out the time until it seems like they’re girls trying to pick out outfits for a first date. They’re done before Achilles can snap at them, but he shoots them a glare before reaching into the basket and taking out a shirt and shorts at random. He doesn’t spend much time thinking about how clean or unclean the uniform is. He plans on taking a shower as soon as he gets home anyways.

He passed by the locker room on his way to the gymnasium, but Achilles avoids it and passes by it again; instead finding the restrooms and changing in one of the stalls. He stuffs his clothes into his backpack and reaches out a hand to unlock the stall door, but at the last moment, he pauses. His fingers linger on the lock. Here in the restroom, the sounds of the hallway are muffled and here in this stall, it’s only him. No one else. He’s not entirely sure that he wants to trade this for a field full of noisy guys.

Achilles lets out a sigh and unlocks the stall door before he has a chance to stop himself. He does this all with his eyes closed, because somehow it’s easier not seeing the door come unlocked, as if he can convince himself that it’s someone else doing it. He opens his eyes as he’s stepping out of the stall and goes to the sinks to wash his hands. When he catches himself meticulously cleaning each and every one of his fingers, he knows he’s just stalling. Clenching his jaw, Achilles dries his hands and forces himself to walk the steps from the bathroom to the field.

It takes him a while to find it, but once he’s outside, all he has to do is look around the school before he comes across a field that’s surrounded by a track. There are goalposts stationed at opposite ends of the field and the sight is familiar and foreign all at once. Achilles tries to ignore the pang he feels in his chest because of it, and finds himself a spot to sit on the row of bleachers. There’s another row of bleachers on the opposite side of the field, but the class is gathered around the one he sits at. It’s a fairly big class. Maybe thirty or forty people, but immediately Achilles can tell who the athletes are.

They’re standing on the edge of the field in a circle, kicking a football back-and-forth amongst themselves. The uniforms they’ve got on look brand new and different compared to the shabby ones that the majority of the class is wearing. Achilles is willing to bet that they’ve been wearing the uniforms all day.

In his head, Achilles goes around the group and gives each of them a nickname: Idiot #1, Idiot #2, Idiot #3, Idiot #4, and Idiot #5. The fact that he used to be part of a group like that—a group that wore the cleaner uniforms and stood around kicking the footballs—doesn’t stop him, because the past him was an idiot, too.

Achilles realizes his mistake too late. Before he can stop it, the thought is triggering a terrible ache that fills up his chest like suffocating smoke, causing him to bite his lip against a sudden sob that threatens to break out of his throat. He should know better by now than to think down that path—because there’s no way that he wants to be caught crying here—but he’s a fucking idiot even now, so of course he didn’t.

Turning his attention away from the idiots, Achilles draws up his knees and wraps his arms around them, so that he can hide his face in the security of his arms and close his eyes in attempt to calm himself. Only doing that causes him to become more aware of how _loud_ everybody is, which isn’t helping at all.

He should’ve ditched this class.

After a while, someone Achilles assumes to be the teacher is talking, because he’s telling everyone in a booming voice to listen up. It takes a while before at last, there is blissful silence, just for a moment, before the teacher is talking again, but at least it’s quieter and there isn’t forty voices talking simultaneously.

At that, Achilles lets out a breath. He’s thankful, but in the darkness of his arms, he can’t help but roll his eyes to himself. It took absolutely longer than necessary for this class to start when it should be over with instead.

The teacher is introducing himself as Mr. Nathanael. Achilles doesn’t pay attention to the rest. If Mr. Nathanael is going to be like any of his other teachers, all he’s going to be talking about is the curriculum he has planned for the year and the rest of that boring stuff. And without all the noise, it takes less time for Achilles to gain control of himself.

Achilles can hear his mother’s voice in his head, telling him to pull his mind from what troubles him, to focus on his breathing, to inhale, and exhale. He concentrates on it, letting the memory of her words soothe him into a tolerable state of being. He counts to twenty deep breaths before he manages to clear out most of the smokiness of the ache. What he can’t remains in the edges of his chest, but that doesn’t surprise him. That’s how it always ends, the same way the smell of a cigarette is bound to linger. Sometimes Achilles imagines that the leftover ache turns into mold that hides in the darkness around his lungs, collecting on top of the mold from the previous times until—

_No._ Achilles shakes his head and rids himself of the notion that there were previous times.

He is shocked back into reality by the sound of a large group of boys beginning to talk all at once. Around him, he can hear people moving about and the sounds of the bleachers squeaking as numerous pairs of feet step on them. He lifts his head to see that everyone is leaving the bleachers to walk towards the field.

Achilles’ heart is sinking in his chest. They can’t be playing football. They can’t be.

A man that is most likely Mr. Nathanael is shouting to get someone’s attention. It’s one of the idiots, because he’s turning his head and holding up the football in his hands in reply to whatever Mr. Nathanael is going on about.

Achilles lets out a groan. They’re playing football.

At this point, he’s one of only a few others who is still on the bleachers. Grudgingly, Achilles slowly gets onto his feet. Others have left their backpacks on the bleachers, so he takes off his and leaves it on the very bottom of the steps. Reluctance weighs down on each of his footsteps as he makes his way out to the field, but then it occurs to him that the class size is too big for everyone to be playing football. He can just sit out for the entire class.

Except that that is not the alternative.

Part of the class is playing football, but those who aren’t are running around the track, and neither choices is settling well with Achilles. Either he does something that he used to do but now hates or he does something he used to love to do but is now ruined for him.

“I need more people on the field!” Mr. Nathanael shouts. “Some of you are going to have to start out playing football!”

Achilles sighs. He might as well go with the lesser of two evils. Walking over the track is already enough to make him uneasy. He tries to ignore the feeling above his left eyebrow and stops the urge to scratch at the spot.

Mr. Nathanael is handing out sweatbands to designate teams. When Achilles walks up to him, the only question he’s asked is “Do you want a specific color?”

Achilles shakes his head.

Mr. Nathanael gives him a blue sweatband.

Achilles takes the sweatband and puts it on. It feels uncomfortably like he’s signing his soul away to the devil. He might as well be, because the unwillingness that wells up in him, as he turns his walk into a jog towards the blue team side of the field, is the unwillingness one might feel as they’re being lowered into the flaming pits of hell.

It gets worse. As Achilles nears closer to the team, he sees that all five of the idiots are gathered up towards the center circle, all of them wearing blue sweatbands on their wrist. Achilles grits his teeth together. At this point, he won’t be surprised if lightning strikes him to add to his misery.

One of the idiots take notice of him as he nears closer. “Hey, we’ve got another teammate!”

Idiot #2 shouts out to him, “Are you any good at football?”

Achilles ignores them. He’s debating going back and asking for a different color sweatband, but maybe it’s better if he’s on the blue team. He won’t have to do anything if he’s got five football fanatics playing. Not that he plans on actually putting in any effort in the first place.

He stands towards the back, not too close to the goalie, but far enough away from the idiots so that he doesn’t have to interact with them. It takes a while for Mr. Nathanael to gather up enough people for the teams and for the game to commence, but Achilles doesn’t mind. He would rather stand on the field for the rest of class than do anything else; however, once the game starts, he does a half-hearted jog alongside the rest of the team in a show of appearing like he’s doing something.

Mr. Nathanael keeps an eye on them, shouting out tips and yelling at anyone who’s “not into the game”. Achilles wishes that he would shut up and turn his attention away from the football game to focus on the runners on the track instead—especially when it’s so obvious that most of the people are walking, but mostly, the man needs to shut up. The game is already horrible enough with the idiots hollering at each other whenever one of them scores a goal.

Achilles can tell that the other blue teammates are annoyed by it as well. He catches two of them exchanging an eye-roll after another goal is scored and the idiots are set off into another series of victory shouts. Two of the idiots even celebrate by going up to the opposing team’s goalie and doing a dance in front of him.

Achilles wants to punch one of them. Why are they so over-the-top? The blue team is completely crushing the other team, so it’s not like they have much of a challenge to be so happy about overcoming. They’re just happy over winning so much so easily. Achilles scowls at how pathetic it is.

A member of the opposing team is standing to his right and Achilles glances down at his yellow sweatband. For a second, he considers asking the guy if they can exchange sweatbands, so that Achilles can show the idiots what’s truly worth feeling victorious about, but he dismisses the idea. A ridiculous football game is not worth it.

Except that the two idiots are still doing a dance in front of the frustrated goalie and Mr. Nathanael is now pointlessly listing off all of the mistakes the yellow team is making, so when Achilles sees one of the yellow teammates attempting to make the most of five distracted idiots and clumsily trying to maneuver the football to the blue team’s side of the field, he reaches over and yanks off the yellow sweatband of the guy nearby. He ignores the guy’s bewildered protests as he tosses him his blue sweatband and runs off for the football.

By now the idiots are realizing what’s happening, but Achilles is closer and reaches the clumsy yellow teammate before any of them do. “Here! Pass the ball to me!”

The guy spares an uncertain glance at him, but when he catches sight of the yellow sweatband on the wrist that Achilles holds up, he gives the ball a kick towards Achilles.

The kick is a bit weak, but the football goes straight to Achilles and he’s dribbling it down the field without missing a beat. He’s got about sixty-two meters to go and he quickens his strides at the realization. The less time he spends with the ball, the better. The natural familiarity of the football moving with him as if it’s a part of him makes him want to throw up.

The midfielders don’t put up much of a fight. By the way the yellow team is losing and how the five idiots are carrying the blue team, Achilles could already tell that this is most likely the first time any of them have participated in a game of football. He’s glad and a bit relieved that he’s not actually playing a match against more experienced players. As much as he hates to admit it, the idiots are the only people that could be considered opponents.

Two of the non-dancing idiots have caught up to him and the third of the non-dancing idiots has taken over the position of the goalkeeper. The two on his tail are decent defenders, but Achilles has faced better than them, so it’s easy to avoid their attempts to take back possession of the football.

They do succeed in elongating the time it takes to make it across the field, which causes an increasing and increasing frustration to well up in the thick cloud of nausea in Achilles’ head. He’s not going to be able to shake them off—not without proper teammates to back him up, so Achilles takes another course of action. One that the irritating defender idiots will not be expecting and one where the only obstacle between him and a goal is the stupid goalkeeper idiot.

Achilles purposely makes eye-contact with him. The idiot reacts by tensing up slightly to prevent a goal from happening in the future.

Except that the goal is going to happen _now_.

Achilles drops his eyes to the football, causing the idiot to shift his stance into full blocking mode, but what he doesn’t know is that Achilles doesn’t need to look down at the ball, and when Achilles moves his leg to kick, he knows by the pleased look in the idiot’s eyes that he’s got him baited.

Achilles’ foot doesn’t make contact with the ball to kick it. Instead, he moves into a fast side step to the left before he sends the ball flying towards the goal. There’s more than twenty-four meters between him and the goal, but he’s got a clear path, two useless idiots behind him who can do nothing to stop it, and an even more useless idiot hanging in the aftermath of a fake kick. Sure, because of the distance, there’s enough extra seconds for something to be done about it, but judging by the look on his face, the goalkeeper idiot is still trying to figure out what went wrong.

Besides, Achilles always makes the goals that he aims for.

The football sails pass the idiot and into the net, marking one point for the yellow team.

There is nothing but silence and the rush of adrenaline through his veins. Achilles allows himself a small smile. Now what he did— _that_ is something to be proud of, something worth dancing about.

Then, the moment is broken by people running up to gather around him. Some are congratulating him, some are asking how he did this or did that. All their words are lost in a sea of cacophony. In the background, Mr. Nathanael is saying in his thundering voice, “Time to switch!”

_Switch?_ Achilles does a double-take. “What does he mean by switch?” he demands to one of the boys closest to him.

The boy’s eyes widen in surprise, but he also looks confused that Achilles doesn’t know. “We’re supposed to run on the track.”

That’s when the impact of all the nausea hits him. Achilles is shoving people to the side and running away before he’s puking on someone. He makes it to the goalpost before he’s hunched over with one hand on the goal post and the other on his stomach. Nothing comes out, but he’s dry heaving so hard that Achilles wishes that something actually would. Seeing his breakfast upchucked onto the grass wouldn’t be as terrible as the fucking mistake he’s just made. He’s brought the attention of half the class onto himself and allowed his history of football experience to come out—all because of a stupid spontaneous decision.

He stops dry heaving, but Achilles is so furious that he hits a fist into the goal post. It’s only when pain is searing through his right hand that he realizes that it’s going to be an injury his mother is going to notice and he’s going to have to explain and— Achilles gasps as the pain in his hand sparks upwards. He wants to cry, yell, break his hand completely. Why doesn’t he ever think before he acts?

“What is wrong with you?”

Achilles looks up.

It’s the idiot that he fooled with a fake kick, that he shouldn’t have fooled with a fake kick, that he wished didn’t even know about his ability to fake kick or play football. Another shot of pain overwhelms the feeling in his hand, but Achilles stills his expression, not letting it show just how much it hurts, and glowers when the other four idiots run up to join them.

Idiot #1 turns to the other idiots. “Guys, I just saw him punching the—”

“Who cares?” Idiot #2 cuts him off and moves towards Achilles.

Achilles takes a step back.

Idiot #2 doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s moving closer until he’s within range of a good head-butt to the face. “The way you fooled Dimitris out there—”

“He did _not_ fool me. I just didn’t know how he plays.”

Idiot #3 laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

“As I was saying,” Idiot #2 shoots them a look before turning back to Achilles, “you should join the football team.”

Achilles’ blood runs cold.

“Yeah,” Idiot #4 chimes in. “You would make a kick-ass striker.”

The other idiots are adding in in agreement, but the more they talk, the less Achilles hears. The pain in his hand is thickening, but all he can think about is how wrong the situation is, being surrounded by five idiots who want him to join their stupid football team. This was never supposed to have happened—especially not on the first day. He doesn’t want their selfish praises. He doesn’t want their shallow comradery. He doesn’t want anything to do with them.

“So what do you say?” Idiot #2 asks. “Do you—?”

“No.” Achilles shoots him a glare. “I don’t want to join your pathetic team. Don’t you dare ask me again.”

Idiot #2 raises his eyebrows in surprise, but it’s Idiot #1 who shouts at him. “What the hell is your problem?”

Achilles is already walking away, but he mutters through gritted teeth, “Fuck you.” He knows he’s risking the possibility of igniting a fight, but at least then he could finally punch one or more of the idiots and at least then the pain in his hand would be worth it. Except that no one grabs at his shoulder or hits him or curses him or demands an apology—and Achilles finds himself hating them even more for it.

There’s a growing earthquake of a headache that’s rumbling inside his skull and he’s feeling another urge to throw up. It’s time to end this awful day. Achilles tears the yellow sweatband from off his wrist and throws it to the ground. He expects the action to extinguish some fraction of the hellfire inside of him, but once the sweatband leaves his hand, Achilles feels like spitting on it, grounding it into the grass with his foot, picking it back up and ripping it, so that it cannot be worn again.

If anything, he deserves that, but when Achilles turns around, there’s a guy picking up the sweatband. He’s not one of the idiots, but that doesn’t matter, because he’s holding the sweatband in his hands. Achilles lets out a ragged breath. He does not know why—out of everything that has happened—this is what causes the tears to finally come back. He should know better by now that he does not get what he deserves.

The guy looks up at him.

Achilles quickly averts his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in one hand and clenching the other into a fist.

“Um, I wanted to thank you.” The guy’s voice is timid and yet Achilles tenses as if he’s been shouted at. There’s a second of unbearable silence before the guy continues. “I’m not much of a football player, so thanks for taking over. I wouldn’t have been able to make that goal.”

At that, the guy lets out a little laugh. It’s probably an attempt to loosen up the atmosphere, but Achilles does not join him and he does not smile, so the guy’s laughter fades away quickly until all that’s left is the silence.

The guy waits. Achilles knows that an answer is being expected of him, but even a “fuck off” will give himself away. The moment he opens his mouth to speak, his voice will falter, or a sob will escape, or ten other signs that will reveal that he’s broken inside and is breaking even now, so Achilles does not say anything. He turns and jogs away. The guy doesn’t stop him and it’s a good thing for him. Otherwise he would be socked in the face.

Achilles keeps his head down as he passes people and manages to hold back his tears even when the contact of his feet against the track makes him want to cry even more, but once he’s at the bleachers and no one can see him, he lets the tears slide down his cheeks. He does not bother to wipe them away in case someone sees and suspects something.

As he’s reaching for his backpack and putting it on, it occurs to Achilles that despite everything, he’s not running on the track, but the thought only hollows him out even more.

 

* * *

 

Achilles winces and hisses between his teeth as he accidentally wraps his wrist just a little too hard with the bandage. It’s difficult doing it with only his left hand and it’s occurred too late to him that he should’ve waited for his mother to do this, but maybe it’s better that he does it by himself. Just the wince on his face would’ve sent her into unnecessarily worrying far too much.

Thankfully, his hand isn’t swollen, but Achilles knows that if he’d punched the goal post even a little bit harder, been even a little bit angrier, acted even a little bit stupider, then the outcome would’ve been completely different. The trip to the kiosk for bandages would’ve been replaced by one to a hospital for a case. He doesn’t even want to think about how that would’ve affected his mother.

A drop of water falls onto his arm. Frustrated, Achilles stops in the attempt to bandage his hand and grabs at the towel that’s lying in the sink. Showering was difficult—especially when he forgot to not use his right hand, but drying his hair with one hand sounded simple enough. Yet he’s had to do it two times and still there seems to be strands of hair that remain wet. He rubs the towel roughly against his hair before chucking it back into the sink.

The toilet seat is getting uncomfortable, but Achilles only clenches his jaw and shifts slightly before returning back to the bandaging. It’s taken twenty minutes at least, but he holds onto the fact that he’s almost done. As if to spite him, another drop of water falls onto his arm, but Achilles ignores it.

When he finally finishes the bandaging, Achilles lets out a breath and leans back to examine his work. It looks and feels decent enough, but it’s likely that next time he’ll have to ask his mother to do it. She would do a better job in half the time it took him.

Achilles gets up, rolling his shoulders to loosen up the tensed muscles, and leaves the bathroom.

The apartment consists of only the bathroom and two bedrooms with the living space and the kitchen squished into one area, but there are no rats, he can sleep in his own bedroom, and despite the apartment’s small size, Achilles does not feel suffocated between its walls. During the course of the past few months, this place has grown to become almost an oasis for him.

As Achilles walks towards the kitchen, he takes in the sight of the living room. Nothing has been hung up on the pale, washed-out walls, but there are two, dark blue couches pushed against the walls and a coffee table in the center of the floor with mail and music sheets spilled across its surface. Shoes, boxes, and other miscellaneous are strewn across the floor. Achilles spots a plate with crumbs that’s nearly hidden underneath one of the couches. At this rate, they might end up with rats.

It’ll be a nice surprise for his mother if he tidies up and she arrives to a clean home, but for now Achilles focuses on getting rid of his hunger. He skips over the bowl of fruits and the few other options in the fridge to grab the box of leftover loukoumades from yesterday.

The loukoumades is sticky between his fingers and sweet on his tongue. Achilles immediately follows it with another and licks away at the syrup on his fingers. He starts to smile, but only one corner of his mouth has lifted before he is looking out the balcony doors. The brief moment of peace disappears with the loukoumades down his throat.

When they’d first moved into the apartment, his mother had taken one look out at the balcony and asked him if he’d wanted to put up curtains. Achilles had shook his head. At the time, he’d seen it as another way to prove that he could be strong, but by the time he realized he wasn’t, he was so weak he couldn’t even admit defeat.

It hurts, having to give up the sight of the seafront and the ocean and the horizon for some view of a taller apartment across the street. That lost is the only thing worth missing about Thessaloniki and now—after a day like today—when all he wants to do is sit out on the balcony and stare out at the sea and forget everything, Achilles misses it even more, and then he remembers the sad expression on his mother’s face when she first looked out at that view, and he thinks about how it’s because of him that she had to lose it, too, and he's crying. It's the sort of crying where his chest threatens to break and each breath is a loud plead for air and the tears don’t seem to stop.

Achilles stares down at the loukoumades and realizes that he’s crying onto them. A short, bitter sound escapes from him. Ruining good things: That is his talent. He abandons the box of loukoumades on the counter.

Achilles starts for his bedroom to finish out the pathetic sob-fest of his, but he’s unable to stop himself from glancing at the balcony. There’s a blurry, black shape that makes him stop in his steps. He blinks back his tears and wipes at his eyes. With clearer vision, he can see that it’s Thetis. She’s sitting on top of the balcony railing with her head tilted to the side and her eyes trained straight at him.

Achilles walks over to the balcony doors. In one second, he’s sliding open the door.

In the next second, Thetis pounces on him.

Achilles nearly falls backwards from the unexpectedness of the cat’s weight landing against his chest, but manages to stay upright and only stumbles back a few steps. Automatically, he moves his hands up to hold the cat. It isn’t until his right hand is twinging in pain that he remembers that it’s injured.

Clumsily, he tries to readjust to holding up Thetis with one hand. He finally settles on leaning back a bit and letting her support herself on his arm with her hind legs. Her front paws are pressed against his collarbone as she licks at his cheeks and though her dark, gold-flecked eyes are serious, Achilles laughs.

“Hello to you, too,” he says, “silly cat.”

Thetis ignores him. Instead, she shifts upwards, one of her paws moving along with the motion.

Achilles has to close one of his eyes as she begins to lick at the tears that fall from them. Her little tongue is rough on his eyelid and at that, Achilles shakes his head. “Okay, okay. That’s enough.” He removes his arm out from underneath Thetis.

She drops gracefully to the floor, but looks up at him with narrowed, unamused eyes.

“See?” Achilles gestures at himself. “I’m not crying anymore.” It’s not true, but thanks to Thetis, his tears have slowed and his heaving gasps have faded to slight, hiccup-like breaths.

Thetis jumps up onto the armchair of a couch.

Achilles sits down next to her and reaches over with his left hand to scratch her between the ears. “How was your day?”

Other than a single blink of her eyes, Thetis doesn’t respond. Achilles thinks that even if she was a cat that could talk, she would still be the silent type. Then again, it’s not like he talks to Thetis because he wants to break her silent streak. Thetis appeared shortly after he moved into the apartment with his mother and she continued to show up throughout the months. Somewhere along the way Achilles discovered that he could be more honest with a cat than he could be with anyone else—even including himself sometimes.

“My day was terrible,” Achilles tells her. “Although I know you can obviously tell. I fucked up so badly in gym class today. And I ended up crying. And it’s all because I was too busy trying not to cry in the first place that I didn’t know that I could have avoided fucking up…” Achilles stops. He bites at his bottom lip. The tears are beginning to resurge and he starts blinking rapidly—as if that’ll keep the tears from falling. Somehow, it does.

Thetis moves onto his lap and looks up at him.

Achilles closes his eyes. He inhales, and exhales. He opens his eyes and continues, “Yeah, Thetis. Everything about today has been—”

A scent drifts in through the opened balcony door.

Achilles does not feel the breeze that carries it and he does not know where it comes from, but the scent is not quite flowery, it’s soft and sweet, and it’s not overbearing, yet it’s _there_. Achilles’ eyes widen.

He can’t believe he forgot.

The name rolls across his tongue. He savors each syllable. Every letter drips with syrup. “Patroclus.”

One thing about today was not terrible.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, this chapter is already lengthy and it took me a month longer than I anticipated to finish it (I had planned to post this in January), so I think my goal of trying to update once a month will not be a realistic promise (including the fact that school keeps me busy and steals away possible writing time). Instead, it'll be more likely that an update will occur every two or--knowing me--three months. Nevertheless, I hope you will be willing to stick around for the whole journey! This is my first time writing a fanfic for TSOA that will have more than one chapter (so shout-out to mal85 who, from the beginning, was so enthusiastic about my writing and wanted me to write one).  
> Your enjoyment and comments will mean a lot! : )


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